Just Doing Time
by Ffeona 'sarcasm-is-my-drug
Summary: SLASH - NO INCEST - AU - Lincoln Burrows and Michael Scofield both get sent to Fox River and end up as cellmates. Pairings: pre-Mike/Linc one-sided Michael/T-Bag, Michael/Sara, Lincon/Veronica, and LJ, Nika, Bellick, Sucre... plus an OFM Juliet Scofield
1. Chapter 1

AU PB slash fiction

Pairing: Michael Scofield/Lincoln Burrows (no incest)

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First day of a five year sentence at Fox River and Michael nearly threw up before he had even reached his cell. The guards had laughed while he had puked until acid and blood was all that was left, burning his throat and bringing much unwanted tears to his eyes. The dragged him and six other guys of varying ages and builds to the cell block and assigned them cells. Michael was in cell 29 he found out when they came to a stop by it. Inside was a huge white guy with dark hair only a little longer than Michael's own extremely short head of hair. The man, who was sitting on the top bunk staring at a photograph in his large hands, didn't even spare Michael a look as he entered the cell. The door closed and Michael turned to the guard, his eyes begging for something he knew they would never give him. His freedom.

"Relax, Scofield, Linc the sink spends more time in the SHU than most and he's not interested in that pretty little body of yours; he's got a gal on the outside; which is more than I can say for some of the others in here!" the guard chortled.

Fear licked through Michael's veins but from the sound of it 'Linc the Sink' wouldn't give him much trouble, but he'd have to look after himself in the yard and the showers. Of course his nick name wasn't very comforting; whatever it meant. "What is he in for?" Michael asked to the guard who was walking down the line.

"Murder." Was the response and three guards; one by the name for Bellick, laughed cruelly before opening up another cell and thrusting another 'fish' into it.

Michael knew some stuff about prison. After all his dad had spent half his time in prison and the other half blind drunk, it had been hard not to pick up some of the lingo. He knew that a 'fish' was a new inmate. He also knew that the SHU meant solitary confinement although he didn't remember what it stood for. He also knew, all too well, what a Maytag was and that C.O. (correctional officer)'s were also known as bulls, pigs, and a variety of things with unpleasant animalistic associations – but that the correct way to address them to their faces was 'Boss'. But what he knew most of all was that he had a five year 'bit' to get through with the soonest possible parole date in nearly three years. He would be thirty by the time he got out! Thirty years old with nothing to show for it except shame and pain. At least he wasn't like his dad; leaving behind a wife and two kids. Leaving behind Michael and his little sister Juliet Scofield.

Michael sat on the bed feeling numb. Gone was the feeling that he was about to cry, and God he hoped to hell it stayed gone. To survive he was going to need a heart of iron and eyes of stone. So he lay back on the bottom bunk, and concentrated on the wall opposite him, taking in the tiny details of chips and dents and dirt. He found himself lost inside the detail in a way only his low latent inhibition allowed him to do so and suddenly it was two hours later and Linc was jumping down from his bed and shaking him, telling him it was time to eat.

TBC?!?!!


	2. Chapter 2

Just Doing Time - 2

Dinner, right, they feed us here. Michael thought as he followed Linc out of the cell as the prisoners lined up and filed out of the large area of cells towards the dinning areas. It was as grey and uniform as the rest of the prison with a couple of unhappy cons dishing out slop that Michael guessed was the type of food he would be eating for the next five years. He really was struggling to understand how people survived inside prison and he had only been there for a couple of hours. All of a sudden he was filled with a sense of hopelessness. And then a voice from behind him shook him out of his self-pity and fear and brought him back to reality.

"Hey, Fish, move it along or the food'll get cold." A Puerto Rican man said, with a shaved head and a white t-shirt.

Michael gazed at the stuff being slopped onto the con's trays and gave the guy who'd called him 'Fish' a look. "You call this food?" He snarked out, feeling a little bit more like himself for it.

The guy shrugged, a smile curling the edges of his mouth even as he tried to keep a straight face. "No but they do and I wouldn't insult them unless you want spit-souse and sun-baked-extra-mayo on the side." He said, pointing to the unhappy cons who were dishing out the food.

"Fair enough." Michael said, and moved forward to receive his own food nodding in thanks to the glaring tattooed con behind in the 'kitchen'.

When Michael turned around he saw that he had lost track of Lincoln and paused, unsure if he should attempt to find the tall man who would stick out even in this crowd; or settle for sitting at one of the other tables. Unfortunately Lincoln seemed to be more difficult that he would have guessed to find and all of the other tables had groups of cons sitting at them. One table was headed by a nasty looking white guy with eight or ten other white guys of various sizes and shapes around him. Michael noticed him in particular because the look he was giving him really made Michael feel uncomfortable. He shook off the feeling and tried to find another table. There was one table with all black guys at it – so he really doubted he would be welcome there! Another table can the mob, or what passed for mob inside headed by John Abruzzi. The John Abruzzi. Michael would have been impressed if he hadn't been so shit scared.

Well, what had he expected? This was Level One after all. Maximum Security. Not for the lightweights like petty thieves and manslaughters. This place housed murders, larceners, paedophiles, rapists and… bank robbers. Only Michael knew he didn't deserve to be here. Circumstances far, far, far beyond his control had forced him to do that bank job and come to Fox River.

Finally Michael spotted the Puerto Rican who had spoken to him in the line and made his way over to that table; it looked less frightening anyway. He paused by the man's side until he looked up, irritation and something akin to worry flickered over the guy's features. "You swimming in the wrong pond, Fish. Who's your cellie?" He asked, confusing Michael slightly. But, despite his impressive IQ, wasn't hard these days.

"Uh… Linc the sink?" Michael said, remembering how he had been o=introduced to the large man who shared his cell.

The Puerto Rican cast a glance at Linc who was hunched over in his seat in the corner away from most of the inmates. The guy liked to keep to himself, when he wasn't tearing up the place. He nodded at Michael and Michael sat down quickly before he could changed his mind.

"Know why they call him that?" Michael asked after a few minutes of silence during which the other man tucked into his barely-nutritional-possibly-poisonous food.

"Lincoln Burrows. Linc the Sink. He'll come at you with everything but the kitchen sink. Rumour has it he was considered for death row, but he had a good lawyer and plus the Father isn't into that whole eye for an eye thing. So he has life without parole. Still insists he is innocent. Maybe he thinks if he said it enough someone will believe him and get him a parole hearing. Not gonna happen, though."

Michael learned forward, ignoring the food now interested in the conversation. "And is he? Innocent." He asked, revealing how naïve he was himself.

The other man shook his head in disgust. "Fish you ain't gonna last a day if you believe every con who claims he is innocent and that the system failed. Truth is Burrows spent half his youth in juvie, grew up and went mainstream to drugs and finally murder."

"What are you in for?" Michael asked nervously. The guy sure seemed to know a lot about prison and crime.

"Me? Held up a shopkeeper at gunpoint. Twice. Got caught the second time. I'm Fernando Sucre by the way." Sucre held out him hand which Michael accepted easily, feeling better now he knew his guy wasn't some hard core rapist or kiddie-fiddler.

"Michael Scofield." He introduced yourself.

"What did you do to get chucked in here, my friend?" Sucre asked, seemingly at ease now.

"Armed robbery." Michael told Sucre, thinking it sounded better than 'I held up a bank and deliberately got caught because someone told me to'. Besides, he figured Sucre would be able to relate more, especially if they were in for (kinda) the same thing.

"Maybe not so fishy, eh Fish? You hardly look the type. But then no one around here does. See that man over there With the cat? He is DB Cooper. You know, jumped outta an airplane with five million. Hid it somewhere before getting busted in here. Of course he denies it but the rumour got started somehow didn't it?" Sucre smiled at him. Maybe things wouldn't be so bad after all.


	3. Chapter 3

After diner they were sent to their cells for two hours rec; which meant they could read or write or stare at the wall as long as they didn't bother the guards. Lincoln jumped up to the top bunk and set about ignoring his new cellie while he opened up the tattered book he had been reading earlier. If Michael didn't know better – which honestly he didn't! – he would think that Linc the Sink was just trying to avoid talking to him. Obviously communication wasn't a great issue in Linc's life. Either that or he was just looking for an easy time. No attachments meant that if anything should happen to Michael; say he got transferred, or released, or killed; then Lincoln wouldn't be unduly stressed because after all he didn't give a toss about the guy who had shared his cell for however long. Feeling a little resentful towards Lincoln – even though it had been Michael himself who had reached these conclusions – Michael stood against the bars of his cell and gazed at all the other cell mates opposite him. He had no idea how many cells there were in a block, but he could easy see at least thirty opposite him not including the ones above, below, and around him and any that were obscured from his view. All this seemed so unreal, Michael thought to himself as he looked out at these boxed people carrying out their daily chores. Some of them were reading, writing, and talking like you'd expect. Some were slightly obscured from view and obviously on the toilet, others were even more obscured by a sheet hanging over the cell doors. Michael was pretty sure he did not want to know what was going on behind those sheets. He shuddered and went to his own bunk were he lay down and started his most trusted survival technique; staring at the tiniest detail until it was all he could see.

"Who'd you spend dinner with?" the gravelly voice of his cellmate sounded far away to Michael who was absorbed with the detail.

"Hey, kid!" Lincoln said and repeated his question. When Michael 'came too' he saw that Lincoln was leaning over the edge of his bed staring at him, his pillow having just been used to hit Michael with in order to get his attention.

"Sucre. I sat with Sucre." Michael answered quickly. He thought he saw a flash of curiosity in Lincoln's eyes – curiosity as to why Michael had been so lost in his own thought – but then it was gone and the 'normal' expression of Lincoln Burrows returned; sorrow hidden by layers or anger and resentment and self-pity.

"Good. He's a good guy. Stays outta trouble though; with both the guards and the inmates. You'd do well to learn by his example if you want to get out in… how many years you in for?"

"I've got five on my bit. Parole in half that for good behaviour." Michael informed the other man.

"Bit? You've got five years on your bit?" Lincoln repeated, amusement lacing his voice. "You spend five hours in Fox River and already you are using prison slang. Unless this isn't your first time inside? You a convict or an inmate?"

Michael frowned in confusion. He was pretty sure that a con referred to someone more hardcore, maybe had already done time inside or had a heavy rap. And he knew an inmate referred to anyone locked up in prison. He opted for the latter.

Lincoln nodded. "A fish then."

"That's what Sucre calls me."

"Well Sucre has been here a while. He's got eighteen months left on a five year sentence. He should know the lingo by now. What's your excuse, Fish?"

Michael wrinkled his nose at the nickname. When Sucre had called him fish it had made him feel like he was a newbie, just a kid looking to fit in. When Lincoln said it he felt like he was talking down to him; and he didn't want to feel that way around Lincoln. In his mind he told himself it was because this guy looked set to be someone he would have to spend a lot of time with over the next few years; however something about that sounded off even to himself…

"I tell you and you promise not to call me fish anymore?" Michael bargained.

"Sure kid, whatever." Lincoln laughed – sounding surprised.

"you have to call me by my name. Michael." He insisted.

Lincoln nodded. "Michael." He repeated. It sounded good to Michael's ears. Like freedom or at least recognition that he was a person in his place.

"I knew someone who spent some time in jail. He told me." Michael said. The explanation was flimsy but Lincoln didn't push the point, just pointed him towards a pile of books in the corner that he could read something from. Michael thanked him and was just sifting through them when a guard rapped on the cell bars.

"Scofield! You've got an appointment with the Doc. Now!"

TBC


	4. Chapter 4

4

Michael made his way to the infirmary cuffed and escorted by two CO's. He knew what this was about. When he had been eight he had been prone to fainting spells and eventually had been diagnosed with diabetes, he had been told by his lawyer Veronica Donavan that he would not be allowed to keep insulin with him because of the prison regulations that no 'hypos' were allowed in the mainstream prison – after all they could be used as a weapon or traded, so he would have to have daily visits to see the doctor in order to get his mush needed injection. What he hadn't known was that the prison doctor would be a beautiful redhead woman.

Normally Michael hated anyone looking at his body and today was no exception. He rolled up his sleeve until it reached a point where the doctor would be able to inject him without her seeing anymore of his flesh than necessary – Michael just knew he was going to dread showering at Fox River with twenty other inmates. All alone his body was a tattoo – various shapes and images and a few hidden initials (an intricate looking JS for his sister was inked into his shoulder blade and his mother's name was written across his back in the stem of a rose. All in all he had a full set of sleeves; everything from his writs to his pelvis to his nape was covered in dark ink making his skin look blue from afar. It wasn't that Michael was trying to hide the tattoo; it was what the tattoo was trying to hide. After his mother's death years of foster homes and trying to protect his kid sister had left its mark on his body. He could hide the mental scars without too much trouble; his excellent education thanks to the gift of a high IQ that had given him scholarships to college meant he could charm and intellectualise his way out of any tight spot. But burns marks of cigarettes and scars where the knife he had planned to use on one particular bastard of a foster father had been used on him instead lay beneath the ink. He was scared that people would see it and know all about his weaknesses and know he had been a victim. He was scared the doctor would see them too but he knew if he wanted the insulin then he needed to give up his arm.

"That tattoo looks like it could have been painful. But I guess being a diabetic you don't mind needles." The doctor said as she injected him.

"I'm Michael by the way," he said trying to distract her from talking about the tattoo so she didn't look closer at it.

It worked. Her brown eyes flickered up to meet his and she nodded before glancing down again. "Scofield. I read your file."

"And you are?" He asked.

"Doctor Tancredi will do." She said, a slight warning tone to her voice. He wanted to tell her not to worry – she was beautiful but she wasn't exactly his type (aka male!). Of course he knew she wasn't exactly worried, after all most of the inmates probably wanted to do her (rape or sex or whatever) and she had guards to deal with when things got too…. Physical. Besides he had no intention on opening up to her, not about anything personal because that would just invite her to try and fix him. Doctors were like that, always wanting to fix people.

"Tancredi? Like the governor? You aren't related are you?" Michael had taken a course in human interaction once as part of a team work initiative his company had been running. In this course they had discussed the art of human body language which Michael – with his LLI – had picked up extremely quickly and 'intuitively'. After all without realising it he had been learning how to read body language for years so he could avoid threats to him and Juliet more effectively. By reading 'Dr. Tancredi's' body language he could see the admission that she wasn't admitting allowed. "Didn't expect to see the daughter of 'frontier Frank' working in a prison, as a doctor no less."

Tancredi looked uncomfortable. "My father's politics and mine differ slightly. As Ghandi said 'be the change that you want to see in the world'. Apply pressure here." She handed him some cotton wool and placed it where she had pricked him.

Now Michael had her talking it was time to turn the tables to she wouldn't be in a hurry to delve deep into his emotional problems. He could see she was one of those types of people. So Michael said something he knew would – if not hurt her – at the very least offend her and put her on the defensive. "And you think that by being a prison doctor you can do that? By telling the government that a man is 'well' enough to be executed? By treating wounds inflicted on a rapist by a murderer you can change the world? Are you naïve or stupid?" He asked and saw the shock and hurt flash across her face.

"Stolte? Could you please take this prisoner back to his cell? We are done here."

Mission accomplished.

***

Michael was on his way back to his cell when the CO took a different turning and they ended up in a small room in which Michael had never been in. Stolte left him in there with a quick 'I just forgot something, stay put' and left a cuffed Michael to the darkness around him. Michael was used to darkness – a lack of light – but he didn't like it. He calmed his breathing and tried to listen to the other sounds in the room, but he started to panic when he head at least three other people in the room. Then all of a sudden the light was on, blinding him for a second, giving the others enough time to surround him. Two large beefy guys held on to each arm while the same smaller man who had been giving him that curious but spine shivering look earlier in the mess stood before him, licking his lips while his eyes wondered all over Michael's prison-garbed body.

Michael couldn't help but let the fear show in his eyes when he realised that it was pure unadulterated lust he saw in the other inmate's eyes, and utter capability of violence looming in the darkness of his pupils.

"Well aren't you just the prettiest little fishy to come swimming in this pond since I walked in here? And I have been here quite some time, my petrified little friend. Now the good – if a slight greedy – officer Stolte has just given us an opportunity to get acquainted. So, Pretty, how well we get to know one another in this brief time is up to you? We can be friends," the creepy man said, turning his pocket inside out so the white showed – "or we can be foes." He finished, a scary smile stretching across his face as he held up a jagged 'shank' to Michael's face.

_Oh god – oh god – oh god!!!! _This past year Michael had lived in a place he thought to be Hell – barely sleeping, hardly eating, plotting, planning and worrying himself to a state of complete exhaustion. Now he was in Fox River only to find out that it had only been a nightmare and now he was in Hell. And he much preferred the nightmare because when one was dreaming they could have the (unrealistic) hope of one day waking up. But there was no way to wake up from this, no one to save him and fighting could only give him worse option. While he wasn't sure what exactly the pocket signified, he knew it had to be worse than the shank. However the shank would almost definitely kill him – maybe not through the initial cut but when infection set in he would be a goner. And Michael knew he was not ready to die yet.

"Linc the sink is my cellmate." Michael said, hoping that the idea of crossing the large white man who Michael bunked with would put the smaller man off of Michael.

However something resembling pity and amusement flickered through the man's eyes as he tutted. "Tut tut tut, Pretty, you think the Sink will help you out? You ask my Maytag exactly how much help you can expect from that particular con and then you come back and use that one on me again." The man said and Michael felt his heart stop. Maytag he knew was the nickname of a sexually submissive man in prison… or something along those lines. And Michael was not interested in becoming this man's next plaything. But he didn't know how to escape this situation. There was no escape.

"Hey! What are you all doing in here!" CO Patterson barged in to the room. "Get out and back to your cells. Lights out in half an hour!" He said angrily. Michael looked at his attacker and saw no trace of the shank as his minions released Michael and left the room. The man turned to Michael and said whispered sickeningly in his heavy Alabama accent "I'm coming for you, Pretty, better remember my name. T-Bag's coming for you."


End file.
